better worlds to come

It was 23 years ago, about a year-and-a-half after our accident, that I got my first real glimpse of heaven . . .

It was a dreary winter day, typical for Sacramento, fog-shrouded and bone-aching cold. I'd snuggled down into my favorite rocking chair to nurse Candyce and read my Bible during the few moments of quiet while the older girls napped.

My Bible was still opened to 2 Corinthians, where I'd left off in my reading. I tried to dive into chapter four, but my heart just wasn't in it that day. I'd been struggling with depression, probably a mixture of post-partum depression and plain old grief, and I ached for some comfort that even the squirming little bundle in my arms could not provide.

I missed Jonah desperately . . . I missed the smell of his soft, tanned skin when he'd run in from the backyard on a summer afternoon. I missed his sweet lilting voice (Jonah always spoke in third person: "Jonah want a drink!") and his gorgeous blue eyes that always seemed to look far beyond me--kind of like he knew this world was not his real home.

(In fact, I wrote a song for him when he was still very young, that was strangely prophetic about his short time on earth. Part of the chorus went:

"The world can be a cruel place, when you hear a diff'rent drum--

But Jonah, there are better worlds to come.")

The year-and-a-half since our accident had brought a lot of healing--and a new baby--into our lives, but today I just ached. Body, soul and spirit. And while I didn't really feel motivated to dig into the Word that day, I knew that it was the only true source of comfort I'd find.

My brain felt foggy as I slogged through the first part of the chapter. When I got to verse 18, however, the fog lifted and the light of truth broke in. As the words penetrated my mind and settled into my heart, the Lord gave me a brief foretaste of heaven.:

" . . . we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen: for the things which are seen are temporary; but the things which are not seen are eternal. "

I didn't actually see heaven, like the folks who've died and are heading toward the light, but God opened the eyes of my heart. As if the veil that separates heaven and earth had been temporarily rent, I could "see" Jonah, the light of eternity glistening on his golden hair as he grinned at me, and I knew that he was more real--more alive--than the baby I held in my arms! In that moment, the Father assured me that even though I'd never hold Jonah in my arms again on this planet, I would enjoy him forever in heaven.

And that changed everything for me . . .

The things that are not seen are eternal! This world is just a shadow of what's to come--Heaven is our real home, and such a glorious homecoming awaits! To this day, I can't sing songs about heaven without weeping. Not from sadness or heartache (although that used to be the case), but from good, old-fashioned homesickness.

Not sure what prompted me to write about this subject, but the promise of better worlds to come comforts me as much today as it did then.

And I pray it will comfort you.

For now, we see through a glass dimly, but then, we shall see Him face to face . . .

we've got to get ourselves back to the garden . . .

I can't stop thinking about gardens.

Community gardens, to be specific.
I don't know why--I have no gardening experience. Our property would not support a garden. And I've murdered every houseplant I've ever owned.

But still, I'm fascinated by the concept . . .

And I've noticed it's not just me. The guy who fixed my water-heater yesterday stopped in to say that he'd decided to convert a portion of his small farm into a community garden.

"I want to help folks at church and in the neighborhood be better prepared for the lean days ahead," Harry explained.

I just discovered that the Vineyard church in Boise, ID, runs a community garden dubbed the Garden-O-Feedin. Here's a snippet from their blog (http://www.letstendthegarden.org/):

The vision of the garden is to supplement, with healthy organically grown vegetables, the pantries of those in need. Two benevolent farmers markets are held each week, Wednesdays and Saturdays under the garden arbor.

In 2007 the garden produced and gave away over 20,000 lbs. of produce, feeding approximately 1281 families, representing around 4108 individuals. Not only does the garden feed those in need, this year we've started holding classes to educate it's volunteers and the community about gardenings value to the enviornment and the many differen't ways to enjoy meals with garden produce.Wise water usage,organic methods of soil and crop development, pest control, composting and the benefits of mulching are some of the classes planned for next season.

I love it! I wonder if there's anything like this in the Portland area?

The village we visit each summer has a community garden. Spread out along the banks of the Yukon, the garden is one of the most scenic spots in the village and I love to hang out there and chat as the locals plant and weed and swap the latest gossip. Even brother Bob, the Franciscan lay priest who organized the community garden, lets down his guard a bit when he's digging in the dirt. He's not always friendly to visiting evangelicals, but he'll lean over the fence and visit for a bit, rubbing sweat from his brow with his grimy hands.

Even though I've not yet experienced it, there's something about a community garden that seems, well, communal. To sow and to reap together sounds almost spiritual to me. And then to enjoy the fruits of your labor and share the bounty with the hungry in Christ's name--I can't think of a better example of communion.

We are having dinner with friends this week who started an organic, family-run farm this past year. They had no prior experience, but stepped out in bold faith and the Lord has blessed their endeavor. I'm excited to see what they've accomplished--who knows, maybe they'll even let me hang out and plant a seed or two this spring.

So, I'm not sure where this is heading. But the Lord has planted some interesting seeds in my heart . . .

memory lapse

A few years back, Lindsay (our oldest daughter) made an interesting comment. She said something to the effect that she'd lived such an eventful life that she'd forgotten more of it than she remembered.

And she's only in her 20's!

It's true, though. The last 30 or so years of our lives have been action-packed and adventure-filled. I tried counting up how many homes we've lived in since Greg and I married, and came up with nearly 20 houses/apartments in our 31 years of marriage! That's a lot of packing tape and moving boxes!

We've lived in 5 states and have worked with 9 different churches. I've held down 10 part-time jobs over the years, not including my writing. I've been on at least 7 mission trips--and Greg's been on way more than that. We've been jobless, homeless and clueless about God's direction in our lives . . .

But, overall, we've had a blast. I just wish I could remember it all!

I started keeping a journal when we found out Jonah was autistic. There was not much written about autistm at that time, and nothing from a Christian perspective, so I hoped my scribblings might help other parents down the road. I kept journaling after Jonah died--it was my therapy--and continue to do so until this day. I've read through my journals a few times and am grateful for their scanty record of our lives.

But I know I've forgotten way more than I recorded. Someone contacted me on Facebook today, and to my great embarassment, I had no idea who she was. We even chatted for a bit tonight; she tried to fill in the gaps for me. But there was no spark of recognition. She remembered me, my kids (including Jonah), my husband, and even my sister who lived with us for a short while. But I have no recollection of her. None at all.

There's kind of a gap in my memory in the years right before and after our accident. I was the matron of honor in a friend's wedding the summer Jonah was killed--but my mind is a blank when it comes to the ceremony. I've looked at pictures, heard the stories, seen the video, etc. And even though I know it's me standing next to the bride, I can't remember the actual wedding. It's like my face was cut and pasted onto a stranger for all the connection I feel with that event!

And this is not an isolated incident. Sometimes my mind can dredge up foggy memories when I'm confronted with the past, but sometimes people, places and events just don't compute. I think I'm getting used to it. But I feel sorry for my Facebook friend who has such vivid memories of me.

At least on Facebook, she can't see my blank stare . . .

my pets drive me crazy . . .

As I attempt to write this blog, I am surrounded by a sea of fur. Scout, who just had a flea bath, is primping on the bed next to me, flicking dead fleas onto the comforter. Chairman Meow is draped around my neck, kneading my exposed flesh with his needle-sharp claws. He's purring triumphantly in my ear--he knows I'm busy with the computer and won't be as quick to hurl him--and his painful kitty paws--across the room. And he has really bad breath . . .

I've come to the conclusion that you must be at least a little bit daft to be an animal lover. Sure, they provide companionship, unconditional love, cheap entertainment and an excuse to take walks. But they are also costly, demanding and time-consuming.

And at times, disgusting. I caught Scout feast once again on fresh kitty crunchies tonight. I suppose I could consider it the ultimate act of recycling (I do live in Portland), but I just think it's gross. But at least I don't have to change the kitty litter as often . . .

Our critters do crack me up, though. If you've followed my blog for a while you know that our dog Scout is, well, special. Since her near-fatal illness last year (we are still paying off the vet bills), Scout acts more like a crotchety old wolverine than a three-year-old sheltie. We actually got Chairman Meow for Scout. with the hope that the kitten's playfulness would help our neurotic dog mellow out. Other dogs can make Scout grumpy, but she's always liked cats.

And our ploy worked--Scout adores the kitten! And Chairman Meow waltzed into our house like it owned the place, acting like he'd been raised with our deranged dog. The two of them tear around the house for hours, with Scout trying to herd the kitten while Chairman happily resists with his razor-sharp claws. Scout gets winded pretty quickly, but it has been fun to glimpse the puppy in her again.

And I know "they" say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. But last week, Chairman Meow taught Scout how to fetch!

I am not making this up! For Christmas, I gave the kitten a catnip mouse. Chairman did the usual kitty things with the mouse--stalking, attacking, tossing, gnawing. But one day, he picked up his mangled toy, trotted over to where Greg was sitting, dropped the mouse in his lap and waited expectantly. Greg absent-mindedly tossed the mouse, only to have Chairman happily fetch it and plop it back on his leg.

The kitten never tired of this activity, and we got a kick out of it too. Scout, who's puppy brain has never grasped the concept of fetching, watched Chairman's antics for a few days and then decided she wanted in on the action too. So one night when we were playing fetch with the kitten, Scout dashed after the mouse and beat Chairman to it. She then picked it up gently in her mouth and marched back to Greg where she deposited her prize triumphantly in his lap.

And so the fetching game was born. The kitten will drag her mouse all over the house to get a round started. While I'm reading my Bible in bed each morning, I can expect a slobbery mouse (or sometimes a jingle ball) to be deposited on my pillow. Both Scout and Chairman watch expectantly for the first toss of the day. And it doesn't end there . . . I've had the mouse dropped on my feet while I'm cooking, on the paper I'm reading, on my lap while watching TV . . . my life has become one big game of fetch!

So, my pets drive me a little crazy at times. But they make me laugh, too.

And I'll take all the laughs I can get these days!

It was a very good year . . .

I love January.

I love it because it means Christmas is over. I can pack up the ornaments and put away the decorations for another year. My season of melancholy passes, presumably hunkered down in the attic somewhere, waiting sulkily for next December.

But the new year is here!

January 1 is a blank slate, a clean start. Even if I managed to stay up until midnight on the 31st, I wake up clear-headed, energized and ready to roll with God. As I sip my coffee, I dig into His Word to see if there are any hints or clues regarding the adventures that await me in the coming months. The Lord will usually give me a verse or a concept to focus on for the year, something to contemplate and walk out as I follow after Him.

Last year, for instance, He taught me a lot about faith. From Scout's near-fatal illness, to my struggle with insomnia, to Candyce's wild trip to India, to flying through thunderstorms over the Yukon, Jesus was constantly calling me to places I didn't have the strength to go on my own. He never promised an easy passage or a happy ending--He just promised to be with me, letting His strength and grace carry me in my weakness. And He did, so faithfully.

It was a wild ride, but what a good year. I feel that I know Him a little better and trust Him a lot more. I know that whatever this year holds, it's all in His Hands. As Larry Norman succinctly put it not so many years ago, "Jesus is the Rock that doesn't roll!"

As I stand upon the brink of a new year, seeking His direction, I sense the Lord's invitation to watch and pray.

Anybody want to join me?